


Dilaudid

by GoldStarGrl



Category: It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia
Genre: Angst, Eating Disorders, Gen, Illiteracy, Internalized Homophobia, POV Second Person, Physical Disability
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-22
Updated: 2017-03-22
Packaged: 2018-10-09 06:07:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10405632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoldStarGrl/pseuds/GoldStarGrl
Summary: 'cause you just can't do things your body wasn't meant toaka "The Gang and their limitations"





	

 

so you’re twenty and you’re trapped in your own body.

you’re the only person you know who carries their prison cell around with them, some sort of futuristic version of stocks, and you’re going to be locked in this hideous metal cage for the rest of your life, you just know it

you get out of bed in the middle of the night and heave it off with groaning creaks and clunks, and run the fleshy part of your palm up and down your protruding, crooked spine and you burst into tears nearly every time, and you would fall you your knees and beg the universe to make you prettier, daintier, make you normal and beautiful enough for your mother’s love, if it wouldn’t hurt so much, physically send sharp shards of pain through your shoulders and back until your muscles clench and your bones ache

and you wonder why you’re even fighting disfigurement when the world is clearly set on twisting you up and making you cry uncle from the pain but you are not a girl who gives up even when you probably should and you push your vanity mirror over onto it’s stupid face so you don’t have to see yourself putting the fucking thing back on.

* * *

so you’re twenty-three and you keep a little black notebook where you write down the calorie amounts of everything you eat.

at the end of the day you either draw a little smiley face if you were good and didn’t stuff bread or red meat in your face like some disgusting pig and a little frowny face if you failed and acted like a fat loser with no self control like your sister

and when that happens you run at the gym for five hours or take all the food from your mini-fridge and throw it in the trash and pour dish detergent on top of it just to make absolutely sure you won’t be tempted and sometimes you do both and sometimes you sleep for twelve, fourteen hours, even when you’re not tired, because you can’t eat if you’re unconscious and the only thing that stops the sinking feeling in your stomach is when the numbers on the scale get smaller and smaller and smaller

and when someone's mother pinches your cheek and tells you you’re wasting away, den, someone should get you a sandwich, you smile so wide and your heart lifts for the first time in weeks because it’s working, you’re tricking people into think you’re beautiful even though when you catch your reflection in the hallway mirror you can see how puffy your face is and locate at least two other problem spots that could use some toning and you’re always cold and your hands are always trembling.

* * *

so you’re twenty-six and your two best friends in the world are buying a bar.

they shove a stack of papers as thick as a brick under your nose the first day in the brand new space, all empty with grimy brown walls, and tell you to sign it, don’t worry about it, it’s just the lease, and you tell them you’re no chump, you’re going to look it over like any good lawyer

and they _laugh at you_ , laugh and roll their eyes and say “sure buddy” but you sit on a barstool for hours, trying to make the page in front of you turn into meaning, into words, but everything gets fuzzy when you hold it close to your face, and even when it hold it as far away as your arms can stretch the letters still play tricks on you, flipping back and forth and in and out of focus, and the second you pin one down the other ones float away

but you pretend to understand everything typed up and sign it with a random, swooping scribble and just scoff when one of them makes a crack about how this isn’t even in English, because if you laugh and brush it off it’s not a real problem, it’s not embarrassing, it's not fucking _humiliating_  that you can’t spell your own name no matter how hard you focus and you’re already five-five and you don’t need another reason to feel small.

* * *

so you’re turning thirty in three weeks and sex is still something you really have to work at to get through.

not get through, not _get through_ you remind yourself because it’s not like you don’t get off banging chicks, you just find it more _challenging_ to get hard, to finish, than when you’re alone with your fitness magazines or certain videos you clear from your search history as soon as you come, flushing and guilty

and a beautiful girl with dark, shiny hair and a round, pert ass you _know_ is a great one, know _should_ be getting you hot, announces “he can’t even get it up with me” in front of everyone and you’ve never been so embarrassed and so frustrated in your life because _why isn’t this working_ , why can’t you do this thing all your friends love and chase constantly and don't think of as a chore, the fucking heathens 

and something small inside you whispers that it has nothing to do with how pious and resistant to the devil’s temptation you are but you get drunk on the roof of your mother’s house and curse Lucifer anyway because you’re going to fight all those evil urges he sent, whether your body wants to or not.


End file.
